


In Golden Hues

by trailsofpaper (Sanwall)



Series: Hollywood Blues [2]
Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: Actor Shane Madej, Alternate Universe - Historical, Golden Age Hollywood, M/M, Sex, Stunt Man Ryan Bergara, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-12
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-05-21 12:50:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14915702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sanwall/pseuds/trailsofpaper
Summary: 1937, Hollywood. Shane Madej’s life is falling apart even before he’s accused of murder. Having atête-à-têtewith a beautiful, bright-eyed stuntman on the same night was only incidental, but one of these events would turn out to change his life.





	1. The Night Of The Party

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is finally finished! I wouldn't have done it without the support of my constant enablers @salfarn and @laufarn. Thanks, pals!
> 
> This story takes place concurrently with [It Comes in Twos](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13713750/chapters/31502964) and if you’re going to read that one I recommend you read it first. But if you’re not into Steven/Andrew, it’s not necessary to read it at all, I don’t think.

Fourth of July, just another night, another champagne-soaked hunt for contacts disguised as socializing. Shane Madej knew better than most how important it was to play nice with the bigwigs of the Hollywood  scene, and now more than ever.

That didn’t mean he enjoyed it.

Shane sighed and swirled what remained of his martini, the little lemon twist coloring the clear alcohol yellow where the lights of the party hit his glass. He usually preferred the olive garnish, but beggars can’t be choosers.

He looked out over the sea of people - as per usual, he stood a head taller than most everybody else - and spotted the host, film producer Herbert Fulbright-Lloyd, in the midst of an animated sermon to a flock of starry-eyed lady admirers by the pool.

Shane sighed again and downed the rest of his martini. Money had that effect on people, he supposed, and plunked the glass down on a tray before picking his way over.

Say what you will about him, but at the very least Shane was not an inconspicuous man. Fulbright-Lloyd glanced at him as he approached, and Shane saw him realize that he’d been seen, and so there was no polite way for him to ignore his presence.

“Ah, Madej!” he called, and Shane smiled - or at least, grimaced amiably - his way.

“Fulbright-Lloyd, hello!” he said and slid his hands into his pants pockets to seem at ease. “Nice little party you’ve put on here.”

“Why thank you,” Fulbright-Lloyd said as the women around him shifted to accommodate for Shane’s arrival into their circle. “Ladies, may I introduce you to Shane Madej, actor.”

“Always pleased not to be mistaken for a freakishly tall penguin,” Shane said lightly and bowed to each of the ladies in turn. He was gratified to note that three of them cracked a smile and the fourth laughed. The fifth didn’t even deign to look him in the eye, so Shane wrote her off as a lost cause.

“Have I seen you in anything, Shane Madej?” the one who had laughed asked, taking a calculated sip of her champagne. Shane shrugged, affecting an air of modesty.

“I don’t know, ma’am, are you fond of comedies?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she echoed uncertainly. “I suppose I like them just fine.”

“Well, I certainly hope so, because you have a lovely laugh,” Shane replied leisurely. She blushed furiously and he gave her a quick wink, which only seemed to exacerbate it. “Well, anyway, I mostly act in comedies so that is most likely where you’ve seen me.”

He plucked up a champagne glass for himself from a passing waiter and raised it with a sardonic flourish before putting it to his lips.

Fulbright-Lloyd didn’t seem especially pleased by his presence however - he cleared his throat obnoxiously and took up talking about the responsibility of producing a film like Shane had never interrupted. Shane was pleased, however, by how his presence acted as something of a deterrent. The women glanced to him occasionally, and they didn’t seem quite as enthralled by Fulbright-Lloyd any longer.

One of them excused herself not long after, and then another was called over by some friends, apparently to witness a trick involving maraschino cherries. Of the two that remained, the one that hadn’t looked Shane in the eye, glanced away several times like she wanted to leave too, but in the end it was the other woman who left first, excusing herself to go powder her nose.

Fulbright-Lloyd seemed to realize she was the only one left, because he looked at Shane and then at her before putting a hand on her arm.

“Bella, darling,” he said. “Don’t you want to-”

But Bella interrupted him by pulling away and hastily saying:

“Oh, I’m sorry Herbert. I think your wife wants my help over there, excuse me.”

And that left only Shane and Fulbright-Lloyd, in a silence that would have become oppressive if Shane hadn’t exclaimed:

“Oh! That was Bella Dunway. She’s starring in your next project, isn’t she?”

“Yes,” Fulbright-Lloyd muttered and eyed his own glass, which was all but empty.

“How is that going, by the way?” Shane asked, attempting to sound interested.  _ Make nice with the money, Madej, your livelihood depends on it,  _ said a voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like his manager.

“Oh, fine, fine!” Fulbright-Lloyd said, like it wasn’t going fine at all. “I mean we’re just getting started, but we have high hopes.”

“Of course,” Shane said over the rim of the champagne glass. It was the wide, rounded variety that made it easier to just tip the glass and pour the liquid into your mouth without moving your head, which Shane appreciated. “So, you’re all up in it. Any thoughts for your next project?”

“I have some ideas, naturally,” he replied coldly.

“Naturally,” Shane repeated coolly and took another sip of champagne. He was looking down his nose at Fulbright-Lloyd; more out of physical necessity than any sense of superiority, but Shane was beginning to suspect it drove the man nuts. “Care to share?”

Fulbright-Lloyd gave a huff and puffed out his chest. Shane smiled and straightened up, just a little, and raised his eyebrows.

“Well, I don’t know what to tell you Madej. I’d have to clear the ideas with the studio before anything could proceed. Why, do you have a script to pitch?”

The sudden acerbic edge to Fulbright-Lloyd’s voice caught Shane off guard, and so did the jab about the script. Fulbright-Lloyd wasn’t to know that Shane had been furtively typing away at an idea that he feared would never see the light of day.

To cover the fluster, Shane quickly said:

“Well, do you think your studio would be interesting in borrowing me for a project? I’m sure they could come to an agreement with mine.”

Fulbright-Lloyd gave another huff, and this time there was an unmistakable haughtiness to it.

“You’re a sorry excuse for an actor, Madej,” he said imperiously and tilted his neck so Shane got a good view of his nostrils. Shane opened his mouth to retort, but Fulbright-Lloyd wasn’t having it, and barreled right over him. “Maybe you were something when all you had to do was stumble over a ladder and it counted for a laugh, but the talkies are all the rage now and you don’t have what it takes!”

“You don’t have the faintest idea of what it would take,” Shane interrupted. “Why, you think any woman with an hourglass figure is fit to star in your movies!”

Color was steadily rising on Fulbright-Lloyd’s cheeks, and Shane couldn’t help himself. He raised his glass in a mock toast and added:

“You’ll have to tell your wife that this party really is splendid. Have you given her any parts in the films lately?”

The jowls practically quivered when Fulbright-Lloyd opened his mouth again.

“You would be lucky to get so much as stunt work on B-rolls, you poor fool,” he said, and Shane could tell he was aiming for authoritative. He fell a little short, Shane thought, but the damage was done in any case - there had fallen a conspicuous hush among the people around them, and Shane had already gone too far.

Shane pursed his lips and downed the last of the champagne in his glass without deigning to look at Fulbright-Lloyd.

“Well,” he said carefully  and set the glass aside, unwilling to go further. “I’m going to need something stronger after that. Good evening.”

He turned and walked away. The crowd parted to let him pass, but he didn’t miss the way they turned their heads and whispered. Shane was used to turning heads though, and not in the positive way. He’d shrugged off worse.

So he made his way to the open bar inside the house, and asked for an Aviation Cocktail, mostly because it took a while to make, and he wanted a moment for himself to think.

“Ex- excuse me,” came a voice, and Shane heaved a deep, internal sigh as he turned around, ready to give a fake laugh and joke about the argument he’d just had with the host, to whoever the concerned guest was.

“Are you Shane Madej?”

“Yes I am,” Shane said and then brought himself to a full stop. Because the man who had addressed him was smiling like seeing Shane was the highlight of his evening and he couldn’t quite believe his eyes.

“I am your biggest fan,” the man said and reached out a hand. Shane grasped it, a little cautiously, because you never knew where this sort of thing was headed.  “Oh man, I must’ve watched ‘A Tall Tale’ in theaters at least four times.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Shane said, and he wasn’t even lying about it. The man somehow managed to smile even wider and it was a little bit mesmerizing. He seemed to be at least fifty percent teeth at this point.

“My name’s Ryan Bergara by the way. The pleasure’s all mine,” he said as he let go of Shane’s hand. He noticed the sleeve of Bergara’s tux was just a little short in the cuffs - a problem Shane was intimately familiar with, from the time before he could afford good tailoring. Unlike Shane though, this man filled out the shoulders of his jacket nicely.

“And what do you do for a living, Mr Bergara?” Shane asked, settling his hip against the bar. Bergara seemed to turn bashful all of a sudden; he scratched his neck and looked down at the shined toes of his black shoes.

“You’re the first person here tonight that didn’t assume I was a waiter,” he said. Shane raised an eyebrow because the waiters were all wearing white jackets, and Bergara was wearing black and didn’t look the part at all, with his black hair carefully styled and swept back, and the black bow neatly tied with the collar turned down just so. But then Shane realized how the color of his skin might play a part, and his cheeks burned.

“You don’t seem to have the disposition of a waiter,” Shane said and accepted his cocktail from the bartender. “They’re supposed to be unobtrusive and accommodating, and I don’t think you’re that kind of man.”

Bergara looked up at him, still a little bashful, but his dark eyes were shining with laughter and Shane quirked his lips into a smile.

“You don’t think I’m the unobtrusive kind, huh?” he said and Shane shook his head emphatically and waved for the bartender to return.

“Some things can’t be helped,” he said. “But other things can, like the fact that you don’t have a drink in hand. What’ll you have? On me.”

“The bar is open,” Bergara pointed out, still smiling.

“Oh, and here I was trying to be a gentleman,” Shane lamented and put both of his elbows on the bartop. “So much for gestures!”

“I’ll have a Sidecar please, if you make them,” Bergara said to the bartender and settled his elbows on the bartop too. There was space between the two of them, but Shane thought it was easily surmountable. He’d just have to slide his arm a little to the right and they’d be flush against each other.

“You never did tell me what you did for a living,” Shane noted as Bergara watched the bartender pour the lemon juice, triple sec and cognac into the shaker. He made a face and then flicked his eyes up to Shane’s.

“I’m a stuntman,” he admitted and looked down at his arms, like it was something to be embarrassed about.

“Is that something you’d rather not be doing?”

He looked up again at Shane’s question, and Shane read surprise in the way his eyebrows rose and jaw slackened.

“No, I love it!” he hurried to say and put his hands together nervously. “I’ve always wanted to work in film and this is the closest I can come to being an actor, really.”

Shane took another sip of his glass, to buy himself some time. Bergara would be wonderful on the silver screen, he thought. He had a lively face and the way he talked could draw you in - hell, Shane had been drawn in, and they’d only been talking for a short while. His voice was pleasant too, low and even in a way that Shane’s would never be, and Shane saw no reason he wouldn’t make it big in the talkies.

Except, of course, they both knew Bergara would never be able to get a worthwhile part, not when even the ridiculous stereotypical ones went to some Italian with eyeliner, and Shane wouldn’t insult him by pretending otherwise.

The bartender poured the contents of the shaker into a cocktail glass and pushed it over the countertop, and Shane watched Bergara gently grip the stem between thumb and forefinger. Shane found himself engrossed in the strong lines of his fingers and the broad cut of his hand.

“I quite like the color combination,” Shane said at last and clinked his glass against Bergara’s. The stark orange of the Sidecar was vivid against the pale, almost dove blue of his half-finished Aviation Cocktail, and the back of his hand was white against Bergara’s light brown.

“It is rather nice, isn’t it,” Bergara said and shifted his hand so his fingers brushed against Shane’s. He then gave him such a look from under his eyelashes that made a thrill run up Shane’s spine.

“Say, would you mind a bit of fresh air?” Shane asked, shifting just that much to the right so that their arms were pressed against each other on the bar. “I’d like the company.”

“I’d be delighted,” Bergara said and smiled like he truly would be, and Shane was thoroughly charmed.

Bringing their cocktails with them, they walked out , past several groups of people to the terrace overlooking the garden and the dark pool that glittered in the lights from the house, adorned with festive paper lanterns.

“So where are you from?” Shane asked conversationally and leaned his hip against the marble balustrade of the terrace. Bergara gave a snort but leaned his elbows on the same and answered readily:

“California, born and bred. Unlike you, Mr Madej.”

“Oh, you got me there!” Shane said and mimed stabbing himself in the chest, and Bergara laughed. Shane liked it so much that he added, “And please call me Shane. Mr Madej is my Polish immigrant father.”

“All right, Shane,” he chuckled and angled his body a little toward him, pressed the back of his hand against Shane’s arm with just enough force for it to be deliberate. “Then you’ll have to call me Ryan.”

“Ryan,” Shane repeated, rolling the name over his tongue and trying it on for size. “Ryan. I like it.”

He met Ryan’s eyes then, and he thought he saw a promise in them that tugged at something low in his gut.

They both noticed when the atmosphere changed in the sea of people around them - Ryan perked up, his entire body attentive, while Shane only turned his head to watch as whole groups started to move, off the terrace, around the house and toward the front yard. Shane caught the eye of an editor that he knew from somewhere but couldn’t quite place, and quirked an eyebrow in question. The editor grinned broadly.

“The firework show is about to start,” he shouted over the head of his partner, who giggled and tugged at his arm to move him along.

“Hey Ryan,” Shane said, drawing the words out. “You want to go see the fireworks?”

Ryan looked at the migrating partygoers and then looked back at Shane. A small smile was tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“I don’t know,” he said slowly. “I think we could find our own entertainment, if it came to that.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” Shane said and tipped his glass toward him. “I would hate to think that you were bored.”

“Bored?”

Ryan downed the rest of his drink in one gulp and set the glass down before he pushed away from the balustrade and started to walk backward, to the house but still facing Shane.

“Far from it,” he said and put his hands in his pockets as he walked. “You coming?”

Shane smiled and looked down at the purple dregs of his own cocktail and swirled them around before he set the glass down beside Ryan’s to follow him.

The house was completely empty by the time Shane and Ryan entered. Ryan was still walking backwards; Shane had held the door open for him. He looked like he was about to say something when the first firework went off in front of the house.

The both of them jumped at the noise; a loud explosion that transformed into a cascade of color they could see through the windows. Shane cracked up first, but then Ryan was laughing too as they ambled toward the grand staircase.

The sound of voices - female, the both of them - reached their ears, and Ryan’s eyes widened. Shane put a hand on his arm, quickly, and pulled him with as he started up the stairs two steps at a time. Ryan was muffling his laughter behind his hand the entire way up, the sound drowned out by a smattering of fireworks. When they reached the second floor Shane determined that the women’s voices had grown fainter and that they’d gotten away with it.

“They didn’t see us, did they?” Ryan asked in a half-whisper, the laughter still evident in his voice.

“I do believe we escaped their notice,” Shane whispered back, looking over his shoulder at the empty staircase.

“Good,” Ryan said and reached up to grab the lapel of Shane’s tuxedo jacket. Shane found himself being pulled into a room and then pushed up against the door as it slammed shut behind them. As if on instinct, Shane wound one arm around Ryan’s waist and let the other rest against his shoulder as he cradled the back of his head with his hand. Shane couldn’t remember for the life of him when he’d last been pushed against a door, and he thought that was a crying shame.

The room was dark and the windows were facing the back yard, comfortably sheltered  from the fireworks. Shane had a moment to enjoy the air of seclusion, before Ryan reached up on his toes to make their lips meet. Shane crooked his knees and sank into the kiss. His lips were warm and deft and inviting, and Shane could taste the cognac of the drink on his tongue when he opened his mouth. He immediately licked inside, couldn’t get enough of it, much to Ryan’s apparent delight.

Ryan’s hair was bristly against his palm and his mouth was hot and insistent against Shane’s, but the way they pressed against each other wasn’t entirely intuitive.The friction was exhilarating, however; all the ways they didn’t fit together made Shane want to try more. He pushed his fingers through his hair and tilted his face to allow Ryan better access with his tongue

“Oh, you’re too tall,” Ryan mumbled into his mouth after a moment, shifting his delicious weight against him by stretching his calves.

“No one’s ever complained before,” Shane said, ducking down to chase his mouth when Ryan rocked back on his heels.

“Well, they were only being polite,” he said, in between returning Shane’s insistent kisses. “This is no way to go about things.”

“Well, how do you want to go about things, then?” Shane said, and he would never admit to sounding out of it, but he did have to concede that he was having a bit of a hard time concentrating with the way Ryan was pressing a hand to his chest, almost absentmindedly pinning him to the door.

“Something like this, perhaps,” Ryan said and again tugged at Shane’s lapel, pulling him further into the room. Shane went willingly, but Ryan still caught him by surprise when he hooked his leg around his knee and maneuvered him down flat on a sofa that stood against the far wall.

“I say!” Shane said as Ryan crawled on top of him. The sound of another firework explosion cut him off, and they both grinned.

“How long do you think the fireworks will last?” Ryan asked, face aglow from the lantern light shining in through the closed window, and Shane reached up to tug at his bow tie, a little experimentally.

“I don’t think anyone will miss me after the fireworks either,” Shane murmured and hooked a finger in Ryan’s starched collar to pull him down. He wasn’t in a rush; taking his time like this, languorously exploring his partner, was a luxury that he intended to enjoy. Ryan grinned and snaked a hand over Shane’s shoulder to twine his fingers into Shane’s hair and pull, just enough for Shane to expose his neck for him to kiss. Ryan scraped his teeth over the pulse point just beneath his jaw, and Shane shivered.

Tuxedos were good for a great many things, but for getting out of they were downright terrible. That was why Shane only dipped his hand in under Ryan’s jacket, curiously mapping out the lines of his back and no doubt unforgivably creasing his dress shirt. Ryan didn’t seem to mind - he arched his back under the touch, nudged Shane’s face back so he could sweep his tongue into this mouth again.

The way Ryan was bracketing Shane’s legs with his own made it easy for Shane to shift their bodies closer, pull Ryan flush against him. The noise of the fireworks receded, overpowered by the rustling of their clothes and the sound of their combined breathing, growing heavier by the second. Ryan’s hands traveled down Shane’s side, clever fingers finding the lining of his pants, and Shane’s breath caught in his throat. Ryan seemed to notice, because he stilled and raised himself up on one hand.

Shane looked into his dark eyes and realized the fireworks had stopped entirely. It was only the two of them, their breathing loud, and if he concentrated, Shane could hear the murmur of people talking outside, in the yard. He felt flushed, aware of his body in an entirely new way, inhabiting his limbs like they were foreign.

“You all right?” Ryan asked in a heavy whisper and Shane’s throat clicked when he swallowed.

“Yeah,” he said and, with one hand still on Ryan’s back, reached up with his other hand to trace the lines of his generous mouth with his fingers. “Yes, Ryan. I like kissing you.”

Under his fingers, Ryan’s mouth stretched into a smile, and he ducked down to kiss Shane again. Shane opened his mouth eagerly, but just as their lips met, a blood-curdling scream pierced through the walls. 

Both of them froze, opening their eyes and staring at each other from such a short distance that it made Shane cross-eyed.

“What was that?” Ryan whispered, breath ghosting over Shane’s lip.

Before Shane could reply, there was another scream, followed by an uproarious murmur of a mass of people all talking excitedly. Ryan and Shane both sat up, almost knocking their heads together.

“Let’s find out,” Ryan said and slipped to his feet. Shane could only nod and follow him outside.


	2. The First Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a death has occured.

Fulbright-Lloyd was dead; drowned in his own pool, and as if that wasn’t unnerving enough, Shane had been questioned in uncomfortable detail by the detective - someone by the name of Ilnyckyj - sent out to investigate the case. He was even more unnerved by giving his full statement the following morning, down at the Los Angeles police station, because he was acutely aware that there was no way for him to be entirely truthful regarding his whereabouts during the time of death.

He’d set their story straight with Ryan, obviously - even though Ryan hadn’t been asked to give a formal statement. The both of them had talked before the fireworks, and when the show had been about to start, they had decided they would view it better from inside the house, on the second floor. Just a drunken whimsy, Shane explained to the soft-spoken police officer who, curiously enough, wore a full beard. And no, he didn’t have a _ particular  _ relationship with Bergara, they just happened to be strangers speaking at a party, as sometimes happened.

Shane fervently wished he wouldn’t be called to testify in a court. He was a good actor, but not that good. His fingers trembled a little before he tighetened his grip on the steering wheel and drove home, relieved to have the rest of the day off because he sorely needed it for himself.

He parked the automobile somewhat haphazardly and ambled aimlessly inside, at a loss for what to do. He didn’t have the peace of mind to settle down to read, nevermind write, and he wasn’t hungry. He tugged at the sweat-damp collar of his shirt and wondered if chasing his dreams and moving to California really had been the best decision for him - the heat could be so oppressive sometimes, making it hard to think.

The ringing of his telephone sliced unforgivingly through his muddy consciousness, and despite the foreboding tug in his gut - it was probably the police station, but what if it was an offer of work? - Shane walked over to the hall and lifted the receiver.

“Shane Madej speaking, hello.”

“Hi,” replied a voice that it took Shane only a fraction of a second to place, even over the line.

“Ryan,” he said and found that a knot in his back loosened a little as he settled against the phone table. There was a crackle on the other end - Ryan exhaling, Shane presumed.

“How are you?” Ryan asked, and Shane didn’t know when someone had last asked him that and expected an honest answer.

“I don’t know,” he answered, truthfully. “I feel like I was put through the wringer.”

A sympathetic noise from the other end, and then:

“How about I buy you a drink tonight. Would that help you feel better about it?”

“You,” said Shane and twined the telephone cord between his finger, “are a godsend, Mr Bergara.”

Another crackle - this time Shane was fairly certain it was a laugh - and then Ryan said, “I thought I told you to call me Ryan. I have a place in mind, but if you have any preferences-”

“Tell you what,” Shane interrupted impulsively. “Give me your address so I can pick you up and you tell me where we’re going.”

“All right,” Ryan said, and Shane thought it sounded like he was smiling, but of course it was hard to tell like this.

He gave Shane his address and a time and Shane made sure to write both down before he forgot. They said their goodbyes, and if Shane hesitated a beat before hanging up, well, no one would ever know.

He realized he hadn’t thought to ask Ryan how on earth he’d gotten a hold of his number, but Shane figured he could use that as an ice breaker when they met again, and then he realized he was smiling like a fool at the thought of seeing Ryan again.

* * *

After a bath, wearing a casual sand-colored summer suit and with his hair brushed back, Shane felt like a new person. The heat was less oppressive, the sun having begun its descent to the west, but he still kept the window of his car open as he drove, allowing the breeze to find its way inside and ruffle his hair.

He pulled up at the address Ryan had given him, by a neat row of three-storey houses, and before he had time to wonder which of the buildings he ought to knock on, Ryan appeared outside the passenger side door. He put a hand on the rolled down window and ducked his head to look inside the car.

“Can I catch a ride?” he asked and grinned broadly when Shane made an impatient hand gesture telling him to get in. He hopped inside, still smiling, and Shane took note of the light gray suit he wore, a hue that made his skin glow

Ryan was decent at giving directions, Shane found - he gave sufficient warning when a turn was coming up, and he didn’t backseat drive so much as he relentlessly criticized Shane for driving like an old lady.

“Slow and steady wins the race,” Shane said primly, as he pulled up at their destination at last.

It seemed to be a classy enough place - it was smaller than Shane was used to, and no one even gave them a second glance as they entered, which Shane wasn’t used to either. Ryan herded him over to a table in the corner, and Shane sat down with his back to the window, making Ryan sit down opposite him. He congratulated himself on his choice later, when the last rays of the sun found its way through the window and cast Ryan in a warm light that made his eyes gleam amber.

The waitress approached  with a smile to take their drink orders and give them their menus. Shane asked for two dirty martinis, and as soon as she left he flipped his menu face down and leaned back in the chair.

“I ordered the drinks, you order the food for me,” he said, and Ryan quirked an eyebrow.

“I don’t even know what you like,” he said, but he was smiling, which made Shane smile too.

“You look to be someone who knows what’s good,” Shane replied. “Besides,  I like all sorts of things.”

“Are we still talking about food?” he asked mildly, but before Shane could respond, the waitress returned with their martinis, the clear surface of the drinks barely rippling as she set them down. Ryan leaned back in his chair and brought the cocktail to his lips without breaking eye contact. Shane felt a hot blush creep down his neck.

“You ready to order?” the waitress asked, and Shane watched as Ryan gestured for her to come closer, and then whispered something in her ear. She nodded and brushed an errant lock of hair behind her ear as she straightened up.

“Sure thing,” she said brightly and collected the menus before disappearing again.

Shane put his elbows on the white tablecloth, stapled his fingers and leaned his chin on them as he regarded his companion intently.

“What?” Ryan said, and he was still smiling.

“Trying to figure you out,” Shane said and squinted.

“There’s nothing to figure out,” Ryan said, and this was where he broke their eye contact and looked down. “I’m just me.”

“No, that’s not what I’m talking about,” Shane said, and Ryan’s eyes flickered up for a brief second. “There has to be more to it.”

“More to what?” Ryan said and settled back in his chair.

“You,” Shane said and gestured impatiently to the space between them. “Us. This.”

Ryan’s eyes narrowed at that, and Shane didn’t like how his mouth thinned into a line. He’d touched a nerve, however inadvertently.

“I’m not sure I catch your meaning.”

Shane took a sip of his martini to buy himself some time. Ryan was back to holding his gaze, not wavering even for a second.

“How did you get my number?” he asked at last. Ryan’s eyebrows climbed and he leaned back, seemingly astonished.

“I asked around,” he replied. “Why, did you think your telephone number is some big secret?”

“I just don’t see why you’d go through the trouble,” Shane said and waved his free hand impatiently. “I don’t know what it is you hope to get out of this, but I feel obliged to tell you that I’m not exactly Hollywood’s favorite so if you-”

“If I want to further my career I better look elsewhere,” Ryan cut him off curtly. Shane let his hand drop to the table.

“Exactly,” he finished weakly and took another fortifying sip of the martini. Ryan looked down at the drink between his own fingers and carefully rolled the stem of the glass back and forth, making the olive bob gently.

“I had a good time last night,” he said. “At least up until - well. I suppose I’d hoped you had had a good time, too.”

“Up until,” Shane said, and watched Ryan’s eyes flick up - a flash of vibrant amber, his pupils only pinpricks in the sunlight. He didn’t say anything, so Shane had to take a deep, shaky breath and go on. “I did have a good time, Ryan.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

Ryan let out a loud wheeze of a laughter, and it caught Shane by surprise.

“Do you always make friends by trying to find problems with them?” he asked and brought the drink to his lips again.

“I wouldn’t say friends, exactly,” Shane said and raised his eyebrows. He had the pleasure of seeing Ryan sputter a little on the martini. He didn’t have the opportunity to savor the moment though, as the waiter came up to them, skilfully balancing a tray with their plates in one hand. She set down each plate with a flourish, and the delicious scent of baked salmon and stuffed potatoes wafted up to make Shane’s mouth water.

The food was good - but Shane was distracted by the way Ryan kept making him want to laugh, with the way he spoke and the way he moved his hands and engaged Shane in the discussion. Before he knew it, the plates were empty, and Shane was just about to order a bottle of wine when Ryan, in a careless, quick gesture, put his hand over Shane’s on the table.

He retracted his hand just as quickly, but Shane could still feel the warmth of his palm against his skin. He met Ryan’s gaze and it felt as if he’d hit a pothole with his car, how his stomach swooped at the contact.

“You want to, uh,” Shane said and curled his fingers on the tabletop. “Get out of here?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Ryan asked with a mischievous grin, and before Shane knew what was what, Ryan had called the waiter over for the bill.

“I’ll cover it,” Shane hastened to say, and pulled out his wallet.

“No, no, I was the one to ask you out for drinks,” Ryan said and pulled out his own. They had a short stand-off, staring each other in the eye as if daring the other to yield. At last Shane pulled out a dollar bill and said:

“Let’s split it then.”

They left a generous tip - not generous enough to be suspicious, but still sizable, and Shane had to resist the urge to sling his arm around Ryan’s shoulders as they went. As soon as they stepped out, however, Shane was blinded by a flash from the corner of his eyes, and he felt his heart stutter.

“What the-” Ryan said and lifted his hand to shield his eyes. Shane grabbed his elbow and, as quietly and clearly as he could, murmured:

“Don’t tell them anything.”

It was just in the nick of time, because what descended upon them was a horde of journalists with their photographers in tow, yelling to get his attention. 

_ “Mr Madej, what do you say to those accusing you of murdering- _

_ “Where were you at the party, Mr Madej-” _

_ “Care to set the record straight?” _

Shane didn’t know about Ryan, but he wasn’t in the mood to answer to accusations of murder, so he shouldered his way to his car with Ryan’s elbow still in his grip.

“I don’t think I can drop you off at home,” Shane said regretfully, leaning down to make his words heard. “They’ll just follow you, and never leave you alone.”

“I can take care of myself, big guy,” Ryan said and flashed Shane a smile, but he could see that it was a little strained. “I’ll see you later.”

And with a deftness Shane envied, Ryan slipped out of his grasp and through the crowd of journalists begging him for a quote. Soon he was gone from sight, and Shane sighed deeply before he got into his car to drive home alone.


	3. The Second Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which embarrassment is imminent.

Even on the best of days, getting out of bed was a chore. And this was far from the best of days, Shane decided as he lay spreadeagled on his bed, staring up at his ceiling and trying to will himself to move. He considered it a minor miracle that he’d gotten as far as pulling on his dressing robe.

He heard the phone ring. For a fraction of a second, he considered ignoring it, but then he sighed, and barefoot he padded down the staircase to the hall and lifted the phone off its hook.

“I really hope I’m not outstaying my welcome here,” came Ryan’s pleasant voice over the line, and Shane felt his face pull into a smile, despite himself.

“Well, why don’t you come over and find out,” he replied before he could think the better of it. He heard something like a stutter on Ryan’s end and then:

“Tonight’s no good for me, I’m afraid. I’ve got work.”

Ryan did sound genuinely regretful, so Shane decided to press the matter- after all, Ryan had been the one to call.

“What do you say to an earlier engagement? If you’d like to come over within the hour...”

“Are you sure? Any journalists camping outside that I ought to be careful of?”

Shane held the phone at arm’s length and stretched on his toes to look out the window to the front yard. He couldn’t see anyone, but he supposed they could be out on the street, beyond the gate.

“I’ll let you in the back door, if you’re worried,” Shane offered when he put the phone back to his ear. He heard Ryan laugh at the other end. “The doorbell’s broken in any case.”

“No, I trust you,” Ryan said, which made Shane feel a little odd. “Just know that I haven’t eaten today, so I can’t be held accountable for my behavior.”

Shane grinned and glanced at the clock on the wall, beside the open doors to his living room - she was a quarter to eleven.

“Say, have you ever heard of brunch?”

* * *

When Ryan had hung up, Shane hurried to dial the number for his housekeeper. It took him close to a precious quarter of the hour to convince her to get over and get the house ready and bring food ready for serving. She had barely said yes before Shane threw the telephone down and raced to the bathroom to have a wash and a shave.

He’d just patted his face dry from shaving cream when he heard a loud banging on the front door. Shane hurried down the stairs and wrangled the door open, cursing the lock, and let Mrs. Fleming inside with her multitude of parcels and boxes - he was too grateful that she’d come to berate her for using the main entrance and not the back door.

“Would you please put on a pot of coffee as well, Mrs. Fleming?” Shane called as he took the stairs up two at a time. He caught what he thought was an expletive hurled after him, but he only yelled “Thank you!” as he threw the doors to his closet wide open and tried to decide what to wear.

He settled on a pair of nice, coal gray slacks with matching black shoes and a pristine shirt. He was trying to find a good sweater vest to put over it all when there was yet another knock on the door. It was like he didn’t have control over his legs - before even the third knock, he was downstairs, yelling: “Come in, the door’s open!” because God forbid Ryan’s first impression of Shane’s home would be the ornery Mrs. Fleming. He skidded into the kitchen and almost collided with her, while she was putting the finishing touches on a serving dish laden with hors d'oeuvres.

“It’s all set up in the dining room, but you ought to have the coffee in the sitting room,” Mrs Fleming sniffed. “That’s where I put it up, anyway. And I’m not staying to serve you.”

“Good heavens, no, I wouldn’t dream of it!” Shane said and led her by the shoulders to the back door. “Really, Mrs. Fleming, you’re an angel and I owe you!”

“You’re right, you do owe me!” she said, but then she was finally out the door and Shane could skid back into the hall, where he came to a halt before Ryan, who stood just inside the door. He was evidently a little uncertain, but his face broke into a smile when his eyes landed on Shane, his posture relaxing ever so slightly. He was as handsome as Shane remembered, and he himself felt unkempt with this hair flopping over his forehead in comparison.

“I see we’re dressed down for the occasion,” Ryan said and gave Shane a once over from head to toe. Shane felt the blood rush to his cheeks and the tips of his ears in embarrassment, but he smoothed down the front of his shirt and pretended like this had been quite on purpose.

“Brunch is an informal affair in this household,” he said and cleared his throat. “Can I take your jacket, Mr. Bergara?”

“Well, if you insist,” Ryan said and let the jacket of the same light gray suit he’d worn the evening before slip off his shoulders. Shane hurried to catch it before it fell to the floor, and Ryan pressed a palm to his arm in thanks. Shane felt like the touch branded him through his shirtsleeve, and he swallowed as he hung up the jacket.

“This way, if you please,” Shane said, and took pleasure in the way he could let his hand rest at the small of Ryan’s back as he guided him into the living room. Ryan’s eyebrows climbed up at the display of food in the dining room - Shane had to take a moment to absorb it himself, because none of it had been his doing. But there was a dozen boiled eggs, a plate of bacon, a pitcher of freshly squeezed orange juice and an assortment of fruits, but also a basket of bread rolls and some pastry Shane couldn’t even identify. He sent Mrs. Fleming a silent thanks before inviting Ryan to sit.

“This is brunch?” Ryan asked carefully as he took place by the dining table, eyeing the spread.

“Sure!” Shane said. “Can I offer you some orange juice?”

It was only after pouring himself a glass and taking a hearty sip that Shane realized the orange juice was spiked with sparkling wine. He liked it enough to pour them a second round. He liked the way it seemed to spread a healthy flush across Ryan’s face.

While the food was good, Shane kept being distracted by Ryan’s enjoyment of it. How he tried a bite of everything and expressed his appreciation before loading his plate with his favorites, so when they’d had their fill, Shane had a hard time remembering what he’d had himself. Shane would have been embarrassed about his fixation, were it not for how Ryan seemed to be enjoying himself as well.

Ryan had fallen quiet to finish the last of his bacon, but he opened his mouth and looked to be ready to say something when Shane pre-empted him by asking:

“Do you want some coffee?”

Ryan closed his mouth, and Shane sensed that maybe he was swallowing whatever it had been he wanted to say. But he also nodded and smiled, so Shane showed him to the sitting room, where there was a set of two coffee cups, just as Mrs. Fleming had promised.

“How do you take your coffee?” Shane asked, half-poised to go fetch a pitcher of milk together with the pot of coffee from the kitchen.

“Black,” Ryan replied, but then he rolled back on the balls of his feet and continued, “Actually, damn the coffee.”

Shane didn’t have time to as much as make a questioning noise before Ryan surged up on the tips of his toes and grabbed him by the neck to kiss him on the mouth. Shane tensed, but at the same time he instinctually leaned into it and grabbed Ryan’s waist with both hands to steady him.

Ryan’s mouth tasted of orange juice and his shirt bunched under Shane’s grip. He was intoxicating, the way he smelled of sun and cologne and how the warmth of his body seemed to radiate from every point of contact. Shane couldn’t stop himself from entangling his fingers in Ryan’s hair again, molding the palm of his hand along the base of his head. The kiss turned filthy almost immediately, with how Ryan licked into Shane’s mouth and how Shane let him, shifting only for him to press in closer.

“You’re still too tall,” Ryan whispered into the corner of Shane’s mouth, and Shane huffed out a laugh, stroking his hand up and down Ryan’s back.

“I apologize,” he said, as earnestly as he could while quickly losing his breath, willing his legs not to tremble. “I could kneel for you if that would make it easier.”

He meant for it to be teasing, a jab at Ryan’s lack of height perhaps, but Ryan pushed away to look up at him, his eyes dark and unreadable. The hectic flush on his cheeks was unmistakable though, and Shane felt a hot tendril of desire curl through his stomach when Ryan growled:

“You can’t just say things like that,” before he yanked Shane back into a kiss that was more teeth than anything else at this point.

“I quite liked your problem solving last time,” Shane tried to say in between kisses, but he lost track somewhere between Ryan pulling at his lower lip with his teeth and pulling at his hair with his fingers. Ryan’s hands were hot at his neck, and when he scratched down Shane’s scalp, he shuddered.

“It’s your house,” Ryan murmured, nose pressed against Shane’s. “You’ll have to show me to your bed if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

For a moment, Shane wished he could pick Ryan up by his thighs and carry him up the stairs like Johnny Weismüller in one of those Tarzan pictures, but he knew Ryan would have a better chance of being able to carry _ him  _ up the stairs than the other way around. So he settled for pushing at Ryan’s shoulder, and without disentangling from the kiss, they started to walk through the house to the stairs, bumping into doorways and stumbling over each other several times. They finally broke away from the kiss when they reached the stairs, if only to expedite the process of getting up them and into Shane’s bed. 

Shane pulled Ryan into his bedroom, and the door shut behind them with a click that seemed to echo in Shane’s head. He froze at the sound for a brief second, even though he hurried to put his hands back on Ryan, hooking his fingers in the lining of his light gray slacks under his belt. But there was no hiding it - Ryan frowned up at him, hands resting lightly on his shirtfront.

“What’s the matter?” he asked in a soft voice. He seemed concerned, but Shane noted that his eyes seemed glued to his mouth.

“Nothing’s the matter,” Shane assured him. “I suppose I am a bit embarrassed at the state of my room - I didn’t know to expect company today, or I would have tidied up.”

Ryan cast a glance around the mess that was Shane’s bedroom and his eyes lit up in laughter. 

“Well, I’m sorry to be an inconvenience,” he said, and even though he was joking, his words made something grab at Shane’s attention. 

“Never,” Shane said, surprised at the gravel that snuck its way into his voice, and to emphasize  the word, he pushed Ryan back against the door. Their combined body weight hit the wood with a thud, and  Shane registered the surprise in Ryan’s features before he bent down to kiss him.

He’d meant for it to be passionate, intent,  but somehow it turned out surprisingly chaste; just a light, lingering touch of lips. When Shane leaned back a fraction and blinked his eyes open, it was to Ryan looking at him under hooded eyelids with his mouth parted over an exhale.

“Bed,” he said, his voice low and commanding. Shane felt a tug of want deep inside him, and he licked his lips before he deliberately let go of Ryan to back up toward his bed. Ryan stayed still, eyes locked on Shane until the back of Shane’s legs hit the bed, and Shane allowed his knees to fold. Only then did Ryan start to follow him, just as deliberate and slow in his movements as Shane had been, and Shane realized that his pulse had sped up, simply from their looking at each other.

“Will you unbutton your shirt,” Ryan said in a manner which made it clear he wasn’t really asking. Shane swallowed and looked down, lifted his hands to undo the topmost button. He paused, looked up from under his lashes, and saw that Ryan was regarding him intently.

“Shall I keep going?” he said, and instead of answering, Ryan used his leg to push Shane’s knees further apart and stepped in between Shane’s thighs as his legs canted open. Shane undid another button.

“No undershirt,” Ryan murmured, and his eyes flicked up to meet Shane’s for a moment. He was smiling, and it felt like the bottom of Shane’s stomach dropped out. Everything except Ryan seemed to be out of focus.

“I, well, I was in a hurry this morning,” Shane said, and suddenly it was hard to meet Ryan’s gaze. He undid yet another button instead.

That was the moment the door was flung open. Shane’s first thought was that Mrs. Fleming must have come back, but before he’d finished the thought, Ryan had stepped back two paces and the both of them turned their eyes to the man in the doorway.

Shane had to swallow before he could force out:

“Detective Ilnyckyj, we didn’t hear you come in.”

* * *

“Can I offer you a drink?” Shane asked when he’d buttoned his shirt and herded them all back into the sitting room, where the cups of coffee still sat on the table untouched and they were joined by Ilnyckyj’s associate, a young man named Lim, who seemed a little reserved in a way clashed with Ilnyckyj’s frankness. Ilnyckyj shrugged in acquiescence, and Shane pulled out his decanter of bourbon with something resembling relief.

He started by handing a glass of it to Ryan. Shane was vaguely surprised that he hadn’t bolted as soon as the opportunity presented itself, but as he accepted the glass, Ryan’s fingers brushed Shane’s.

Shane looked up, and in his eyes he saw a resolve that bolstered him - Ryan was telling him he wasn’t going anywhere.

Shane let out a breath and turned to the detectives to hand them their drinks. He swallowed his own in one, long gulp and flopped down in his armchair. Let them do their worst, he thought viciously. But the look Ilnyckyj sent his partner revealed a hesitancy on his part, and Shane would perhaps have lingered on that look for longer if Ilnyckyj’s focus hadn’t snapped back to him as he asked:

“Did the late Mr. Fulbright-Lloyd know about the two of you?”

Shane felt Ryan shift where he stood just beside the armchair, but replied quickly, “He couldn’t have. We only met, Bergara and I, on the night of the party.”

“I don’t suppose he happened upon you, and you felt - cornered?”

The implication in Ilnyckyj’s voice was like a punch to Shane’s gut.

“What- like you did just now?” he said, perhaps a touch too angrily, stumbling over the words in his haste to get them out. “Well, I can only give you my word that not only did that not happen, I also wouldn’t have the guts to -”

He broke off and swallowed before he could continue, “To drown someone, no matter how cornered I felt.”

“We were both occupied,” Ryan said, and there was an edge to his voice that Shane didn’t recognize, something hard and cold. “Away from all the fireworks. But you plainly see how anything we say would - or rather wouldn’t - hold up in court.”   
Ilnyckyj had to concede the point. He seemed thoughtful, gently swirling the bourbon in his glass, and Shane didn’t know what to think about him.

“We all thought it was a dreadful accident,” Shane said, dropping his gaze to his own glass. “But I’m sure you saw the headlines in the rags already. I’m their favorite suspect - someone was eager to tell them we’d exchanged harsh words.”

His voice died down, and a swell of despair washed over him. What a complete mess he found himself in - and there didn’t seem to be a way out, either. He sighed deeply, to keep from bursting into tears or something equally as embarrassing, and brought a hand over his eyes. “I just... This is all quite a lot to deal with, on top of a failing career.”

In that moment, he felt Ryan’s hand squeeze his shoulder. Shane couldn’t bring himself to look at him, but he was so grateful for his presence, and he struggled to find a way to convey it when Ilnyckyj asked:

“Is there anything you can tell us about the night in question, that you think would help our investigation?”   
  
Finally, Shane could look up at Ryan, who was already looking down at him, and once again Ryan came to his rescue, like a proverbial knight in shining armor.

“If I were you, I’d go talk to Bella - Isabelle Dunway. She might know something.”

As Ilnyckyj and his partner got up and readied themselves to leave, Shane reached up a hand to squeeze Ryan’s fingers in thanks. He hadn’t noticed the leaden lump of dread at the bottom of his stomach before the detective’s parting words made it dissolve just a little:

“As far as I’m concerned, your secret is safe. I don’t give a shit.”


	4. The Third Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the day is a pale epilogue of the night.

Knowing that detective Ilnyckyj and his partner had no intentions of turning either of them in for sodomy was a Damocles sword removed from the neck of Shane’s worries. What still gnawed at him, however, was the way Ryan had stood staunchly by his side throughout the ordeal of being interrogated in the sitting room before apparently being declared innocent of murder by the investigators, but then, as soon as the detective left, had excused himself to go to work. Leaving Shane, not only with an empty glass of bourbon, a full pot of coffee and the plate of hors d'oeuvres he’d forgotten in the kitchen, but also with a dreadful sense of being absolutely abandoned.

Who had to work evenings anyway? Shane was irate and restless, and after several hours of tossing and turning in his bed, he cast a glance at the clock on his wall. The sliver of moonlight through the window was enough for him to discern the time; half past two.

“This is enough to drive a man to drink,” he muttered to himself and was already out of his bed before he remembered that he’d finished his decanter of bourbon after Ryan had left - just enough left in the bottle for his  third glass. He cursed quietly, but he was already up and he knew he wouldn’t get any sleep that night, not with the way his thoughts were buzzing like trapped bees inside his skull.

_ Might as well wander around the house like a restless ghost,  _ he mused sourly and flicked the lights on in the stairwell to see where he was walking - despite everything, he didn’t want to give the press the satisfaction of ending up with a broken neck at the bottom of his own damn stairs.

Just as he reached the bottom of the stairs, however, there was a knock. It was unmistakable - but it did not come from the locked front door, of that Shane was certain, and his pulse elevated at the thought. No one who wished him harm would knock, would they? Still, Shane tried to be quiet as he walked over to peer into his sitting room and through the glass doors to the back yard.

And who should stand there but Ryan Bergara himself, face not quite pressed up against the window pane. As Shane moved, he saw Ryan’s eyes shift to him, and he thought he could see him grin. Shane rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t deny that his pulse kicked up yet another notch as he went over to the back door to let Ryan in.

“I see you learned your lesson and locked the doors,” Ryan said as Shane opened the door. He stepped inside, bringing with him a whiff of cool night air and the smell of chypre. He was dressed in black slacks and a dark gray sweater, carefully pulled over his shirt so the collar didn’t show.

“I tend to not make the same mistake twice,” Shane said, but then he touched Ryan’s shoulder to pull him closer. “Except perhaps sometimes.”

Ryan smiled and humored him enough to push up on his toes to press a kiss to his lips before he settled back down on his heels and said, “I’m sorry I had to leave earlier, I really did have to work.”

“I’m sorry too,” Shane said, unable to stop his hand from traveling up Ryan’s shoulder to squeeze at the joint where it met his neck. “I never meant to pull you into this mess- I’m sure you deserve exactly none of it.”

“I don’t know about that,” Ryan said, and there was such a good-natured glint in his eyes that Shane had to smile. “Well, anyway, I was going to ask you- would you like to clear your name?”

Shane paused, hand still on Ryan’s shoulder.

“What do you mean?” he asked at last, slowly.

“I mean that I heard from my roommate’s friend, who works for the late Fulbright-Lloyd’s brother, that he left for the night, under highly suspicious circumstances.”

It took Shane a second to catch up to the implication.

“What, so you- his own brother?”

“I think it’s worth checking out, wouldn’t you say?” Ryan said, and again Shane had to work to follow his train of thought.

“Are you suggesting breaking and entering, Bergara?”

Ryan’s blinding grin was answer enough, and Shane shook his head.

“You’re mad. I’m implicated enough as it is!”

“I have a key, so it’s not technically _breaking_ and entering,” Ryan supplied, unhelpfully.

Shane had a biting reply ready on his tongue, but he could remember the paralyzing fear of the detective stepping in on them, how Ryan had stood by him through it all without needing to. The helplessness that had left Shane angry, frustrated at the situation and impotent to change his own fate.

“You know what?” he said and squeezed Ryan’s shoulder. “Let’s do it.”

“I borrowed a friend’s car,” Ryan said and grinned. And really, Shane was prepared to do any number of things to keep him grinning like that.

* * *

The brother of the murder victim lived uncomfortably close to the site of the murder, in Shane’s own opinion. It was, however, too late to back out, and even if they left the borrowed car some blocks away and covered the remaining distance on foot, there was still a lingering sense of unease that made Shane walk warily.

“This is mad,” Shane whispered, as Ryan turned the key provided by the friend of his roommate, in the back door of Harold Fulbright-Lloyd’s opulent house.

“Yeah,” Ryan whispered back, and there was a vibrato to his voice that made Shane pause and wonder if, maybe, Ryan was just as terrified as he was. Be that as it may, they shouldered right on, to get inside the dark and empty home.

“Where do you think we ought to start?” Shane said, not bothering to keep up the whispering. They weren’t very inconspicuous anyway.

“His home office perhaps?” Ryan said, and Shane nodded. They were barely able to navigate in the dark house by the light finding its way in from the streetlamps, and when they found what had to be Harold Fulbright-Lloyds study, Shane brazenly flicked the lights on inside. Ryan made a noise and shielded his eyes from the sudden onslaught of brightness, but when he lowered his hands he didn’t say anything, he only cast a glance around the room and then marched toward the large, mahogany desk with confidence.

“If he did kill his brother,” Shane said and wandered over to the bookshelf to idly peruse the selection of books, “he wouldn’t keep proof of it in his own study though, would he?”

“Maybe not cold hard proof,” Ryan allowed and cheerfully yanked open the desk drawers, one by one, starting from the bottom. “But perhaps something incriminating can be found. A motive for the murder at least?”

“I didn’t know Herbert Fulbright-Lloyd very well,” Shane said thoughtfully as he let his fingers trail over the backs of several thick and incredibly boring tomes that made up the bookshelf. “But I did know him well enough to know that if he were _ my  _ brother, I’d hate his guts.”

Ryan barked out a laugh that was loud enough to echo. He quickly clapped a hand to his mouth, but when Shane looked over at him, his eyes were glittering with laughter.

“How you’re a suspect in a murder investigation I’ll never know,” Ryan said dryly when he lowered his hand. Shane nodded slowly, like he was humoring him, and Ryan laughed again. “I can’t believe you, we’re here to try to clear your name!”

“You can’t believe me?” Shane said and pushed away from the bookshelf to walk toward him. “You’re the one who insisted we break into- You procured a damn key, and you have the gall to question _ my  _ reasoning?”

Ryan didn’t take his mock indignation seriously; instead he straightened up and allowed Shane to enter his personal space, eyeing him calmly. Shane was now so close that he could lean in and kiss him - but he didn’t, he was content to stay just a half-step away and look at him, at the fall of his thick, black hair and the shape of his smile.

“The top drawer won’t open,” Ryan said, and for a second Shane didn’t know what he was talking about. Then he looked down and saw Ryan’s hand on the desk, thumb resting against the top drawer that was, unlike the others, firmly closed.

“Do you suppose he kept the key somewhere in here?” Shane asked and looked around - at the immaculate desk, the boring bookshelf, the frankly garish lamp on a table in the corner.

“I would,” Ryan said thoughtfully. “I mean, otherwise I’d forget it elsewhere and never get the damn drawer open when I needed it.”

“I don’t know if I appreciate this look into your disorganized psyche,” Shane teased as he moved away, to look for the key in the bookshelf. Ryan huffed indignantly at him and started to rifle through the sparse belongings on the desktop. He didn’t have much luck, and in a small fit of frustration, Ryan kicked the base of the desk with the toe of his shoe, and Shane turned around just in time to see the top drawer spring out and hit Ryan in the side.

“Oof!” said Ryan and peered down into the drawer curiously.

“Well?” said Shane and let his hand drop from the bookshelf. “What’s in there?”

Ryan looked up, met Shane’s gaze across the desk.

“Nothing,” he said. “It’s completely empty.”

“Well, that seems suspicious in and of itself.”

That was when there was the unmistakable sound of a door slamming shut from somewhere in the house, and both Ryan and Shane froze. But where Shane remained stock still, Ryan then burst into action. He placed both hands on the desk to vault himself over it in an impressive exhibition of agility, and then hurled himself at the light switch, plunging them back into darkness.

Going mostly by feel, Shane navigated toward Ryan in the dark, his fumbling hands finding his arm and then the both of them pressed themselves against the wall to listen to the sounds of the house, to whomever it was who had entered it.

“Who do you think it is?” Shane murmured and felt Ryan’s fingers close around his arm and squeeze in a quiet warning. Shane fell silent, but their collective breathing seemed too loud, pressed together as they were. The sound of footsteps, foreboding, and somewhere in the house a lamp was lit, because Shane could see it reflected on the wall opposite the study, through the cracked open door.

“We need to get out of here, no matter who it is,” Ryan replied quietly, when the sound of footsteps seemed to recede, replaced by the creaking of wood. Going upstairs, perhaps, Shane’s mind supplied.

“Then let’s go!” he whispered back, and without giving Ryan the chance to protest, he nudged to door open wide enough to get through it. It was strange to slip away from Ryan like that, when Shane had already grown used to his body heat. Ryan soon followed however, and in the half-light of the lamp in some hallway of the house, left on by whomever it was who had entered, they snuck their way back to the back door and snuck out into the night and, with a forethought that Shane would never have had in his life, Ryan locked the door behind them.

The sky to the east was already brightening by degrees when they reached the car and got in - Shane let Ryan drive this time too, content to just sit back and allow his pulse to calm down while they navigated the streets of Los Angeles.

“Well, that was quite a waste of time,” Shane said lightly. He didn’t want Ryan to think he was berating him - quite the contrary, Shane would not have caught a wink of sleep even if he’d stayed at home and gone back to bed - and this would be something to write home about, an illicit nightly escapade of epic proportions, if Shane wrote home at all.

“I wouldn’t say that,” Ryan said, eyes on the road. “I mean, it sure seemed like there were a lot of things missing from his study.”

“Or he just never kept anything there,” Shane said, eyeing Ryan out of the corner of his eye.

“It’s possible,” Ryan said tersely, like he was loath to admit it, and rapped his fingers against the steering wheel. “I mean, I guess it doesn’t matter. Not finding anything isn’t going to clear your name.”

A silence fell between them. Shane turned his head to look at Ryan properly, and he saw the tense set of his jaw, the hard look in his eyes.

“Hey,” Shane said and reached out a hand to touch Ryan’s arm with his fingertips. “It’s all right. I wasn’t- I wouldn’t expect you to clear my name, Ryan.”

Ryan exhaled loudly and then turned to look at Shane too.

“I guess not,” he said. “I just wish-”

The sound of sirens startled the both of them; Ryan snapped his eyes back to the road and Shane retracted his hand. They had drifted dangerously close to the opposite side of the lane, and Ryan corrected their course just in time for two police cars to appear around the bend in the road. Shane didn’t realize he was gripping his own leg hard enough to hurt before the cars had passed them without slowing down, and he happened to look down and see that his knuckles had turned white.

When he turned to Ryan, he saw that he was breathing shallowly. When Ryan glanced at him, he saw that there was an odd look in his eye, an ember of excitement that kindled an unnameable fear in Shane.

“Please, would you be so kind as to drop me off at home?” Shane said with a light inflection even as he turned his face to look out at the dark road and flattened his palm against the creased material of his slacks. There was a small pause that Shane couldn’t parse the meaning of before Ryan answered, softly:

“Of course.”

They shared one last look when Ryan had pulled the car into a halt outside Shane’s home without turning the engine off. Something was hanging in the air between them, waiting to explode, and Shane knew it was up to him to either hold up a match to light the fuse or disarm the dynamite.

“Thank you,” he said, and he meant it. Ryan had wanted an adventure, and he’d gotten one, and asking Shane along had been more than Shane could have hoped for. But before either of them could say anything more, something they’d regret, he got out and closed the door behind him, determined not to look back. He was up by his own door, fumbling with the key to get inside when he heard the rumble of the car backing over gravel. He still didn’t look back, a heaviness settling uncomfortable but familiar in his bones. 

Shane had thought that he’d be too wound up to sleep, but after regretfully draping himself in his bedding, still half-dressed, he fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

* * *

Waking up after what seemed to be only a second of sleeping to go to work felt like a punishment, even though Shane was well aware he ought to be grateful to have any work at all in times like these. His heart was clearly not in the acting, however, and his mind was elsewhere as well. After a few agonizing hours of shooting, the director took him aside.

“I know the last days have been a lot for you,” the director, Bennett, said sympathetically, and Shane thought back to himself and Ryan pressed together in a dark room, listening breathlessly for footsteps. That wasn’t what the director was referencing. “Take the afternoon off, we’ll pick up again tomorrow, how’s that sound?”

Shane must have agreed, because the next thing he knew he was home, wiling away the afternoon haunted by tiredness that didn’t seem like it could have come from just one night of sleeplessness. He ate some of the days old hors d'oeuvres but couldn’t muster up the energy to do much else. Last night had given him plenty of material and he could think of a few of his script drafts that would improve with a retelling of his clandestine nightly outing, but Shane just couldn’t find it in him to turn his thoughts into art; the fatigue felt bone deep and had him laid out on the sofa in the sitting room, listless and apathetic.

When evening rolled around, Shane shifted on the sofa and wondered if he ought to give Ryan a call, and then, unceremoniously, he drifted off to sleep.


	5. The Fourth Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Shane invites oblivion.

Shane was growing tired of startling awake with a thorough sense of unease coursing through his body. Having slept stretched out on his sofa instead of in his bed hadn’t improved matters either.

He was actually looking forward to getting back to work - that exhilarating mix of repetition and interpretation that left no time over for Shane to ponder his own shortcomings in excruciating detail. He kept the windows rolled down in his car as he drove, let the wind ruffle his hair, and felt generally better about the world when he arrived on set.

“Oh!” said Sara, still with her hair pinned back for the makeup session. She was sitting primly in her chair, but leaned backwards precariously to fix Shane with a look when he entered the dressing room. “I didn’t know you were going to be in today!”

“I- didn’t know I wasn’t supposed to not be in today,” Shane replied, momentarily taken aback. But no, he very clearly remembered the director telling him to take only the afternoon off and not - surely not more than that?

“Well, I just thought, what with-” Sara broke off and turned back to the mirror, to brush a non-existent errant curl from her forehead.

“What with what?” Shane asked, and he didn’t mean to sound so irritated. Sara was a wonderful co-star, and Shane’s job would have been a lot less tolerable if it weren’t for her easy-going nature and infectious smile. He supposed he’d simply woken up on the wrong side of the bed - well, sofa - and the universe wasn’t going to let him roll over.

“You know,” Sara said with an upturning at the corner of her mouth when she glanced at him in the mirror. “Your entire situation.”

“My entire situation,” Shane repeated listlessly. It sounded about right. He turned on his heel and went back out the dressing room to go and find the director.

Shane found Bennett deep in conversation with one of the cameramen. One of the few advantages to Shane’s height was that he was incredibly difficult to ignore, so before long Bennett turned to him and raised his eyebrows, as if to prompt him to speak.

“So, Sara was surprised to see me come in today,” Shane said as cheerfully as he could manage. “What did you tell her we were doing today?”

“Look, Madej,” Bennett said, and even though he was a nice enough fellow most of the time, Shane found he now resented his tiny, round glasses and pinched expression. “It’s one hell of a circus around you right now. Why don’t you just go home and we’ll shoot some of the other scenes for now, figure out what to do with you later.”

“What do you mean, later?” Shane said suspiciously, and even though he hadn’t been putting his best foot forward at work lately, returning to his home to be alone with his thoughts was a dreadful prospect.

Bennett only shook his head and shoved at Shane, lightly, urging him to go.

“Like, tomorrow. It’s fine, just take another afternoon off.”

His tone didn’t leave much room for protest, so Shane said his dejected farewell to his colleagues, and he took note of the fact that they all threw him looks and whispered among themselves as he left.

_ Let them whisper,  _ Shane thought viciously. _ They all think I did it anyway. _

Being home alone was just as oppressive as Shane had feared. He paced up and down his entire home several times - two tours around the back garden, taking a moment to stand on the terrace and contemplate picking up the habit of smoking again. He tried to settle down with a book, and then with the newspaper, but his gaze kept drifting off, and there was no quieting the maelstrom of anxious thoughts about his future. Trying to write didn’t even bear contemplating.

On his fourth aimless round through his house, Shane’s eyes fell upon the telephone in the hall. Before he could think about it too much, he strode up to it, picked it up and dialed the the operator and asked for one Ryan Bergara, whose address he still remembered, his brain having decided it important enough to put a pin in.

The one who picked up wasn’t Ryan. It was a woman, young by the sound of it, who introduced herself as simply “Jen,” in a very curt tone.

“Hello, Jen,” Shane said as politely as he could. “I’m looking for Ryan Bergara.”

“Oh, so you’re the reason journalists have been hounding him,” Jen said matter-of-factly, before she leaned away to shout Ryan’s name so loudly Shane imagined his teeth rattled. Through the line he heard approaching footsteps, some rustling, and then Ryan’s voice, a little out of breath, saying:

“Hello?”

“It’s me,” Shane said and couldn’t help smiling, even though there wasn’t much to smile about.

“Shane!” Ryan said, and then his voice was cut off by a shuffling noise - Shane thought that maybe he’d covered the mouthpiece with his hand to talk without Shane hearing - but then he was back and he sounded happy when he continued: “Sorry, I- I just got home. I hope you’re well, I’m sorry about last night-”

_ “I’m  _ sorry,” Shane hurried to say, grabbing the telephone with both hands as if that would somehow convey his sincerity to Ryan. “I never meant to pull you so deep into this whole sorry affair. And last night-”

“It’s fine, really,” Ryan said, and his voice was warm, like he was smiling. “I mean, those detectives seemed to not even bat an eyelash at us, honestly, and it seems we got away with our- adventure.”

“I suppose,” Shane said, even though the detectives and the not quite breaking and entering weren’t all of what  he’d meant. “Say, can I make it up to you? I’ll buy you dinner - I know a place where we won’t be bothered. I guarantee it.”

“You seem keen on keeping me well fed,” Ryan said and Shane chuckled in response.

“What can I say,” he replied. “I like food, and I like you.”

That seemed to bring Ryan up short, and Shane had a second to doubt if that had maybe been the wrong thing to say, but then Ryan said, “That sounds lovely actually. Will you pick me up again?”

* * *

“What did you mean,” Ryan said carefully on the other side of the small round table they had at their disposal in this hole-in-the-wall that was Shane’s favorite place, with the comforting barrier of a stack of emptied drinking glasses between them and the low murmur of other people’s conversation surrounding them. “Back at yours, when you said, ‘on top of a failing career’?”

Shane had to think back - he tended to say a lot of things, and he was seldom serious. But he had been serious about that, in a certain self-deprecating way, when he’d told Detective Ilnyckyj that an active murder investigation was a lot to deal with.

“I thought I’d told you,” Shane said and aimed for casual though he probably missed by a mile. “If you’re trying to curry favor with me to get ahead in the industry, you won’t come far. The studios aren’t exactly lining up to offer me work anymore.”

Ryan frowned without meeting Shane’s gaze. Shane took a sip of his drink and decided not to meet his either.

“And I told _ you  _ I’m not here for that,” Ryan said. “I just... I have a hard time imagining you being down on your luck.”

Shane knocked back the rest of his drink and slammed the glass down before sweeping out with his hands in a grand gesture. He’d been having too much alcohol too fast, he knew that, but it couldn’t be helped now.

“What, because I can afford all this booze?” he asked, his tone almost scornful.

“Because I’ve seen your pictures,” Ryan replied, quickly and steadfastly, like he wasn’t going to take any of Shane’s shit anymore. It made Shane sit up a little straighter. “You’re great. No one can do comedy quite like you.”

The beginnings of a blush crept up Shane’s neck at Ryan’s straightforward praise, but before it could overtake his face, he signaled the waiter for a refill of his drink.

“Well, thank you,” he said and cut off when the waiter appeared with a fresh drink for him. He chanced a look at Ryan over the rim of the frosted glass, and found Ryan looking intently back at him. Shane sighed. “I’m afraid it’s not down to talent though. I’m sure you of all people know that.”

Here Ryan’s gaze fluttered down to his own drink. He downed the rest of it with a grimace, and Shane could sympathize, following suit with his cocktail. It took him a while to empty the full glass, and he felt the spirits sting his eyes as he did it, tilting his head back and working determinedly. When the last drop had landed on his tongue, he set the glass down with a dramatic flourish and an air of triumph, leaning back in his chair like he’d finished a marathon.

During this performance, Ryan’s wistfulness seemed to have transformed into a sparkling sort of fondness, and Shane found himself smiling at it. Ryan deserved to find things to smile about. Shane thought about the journalists hounding him, and how that was his fault. At that moment, the music band in the corner strung up a waltz, and Shane put his hands flat on the table.

“Say, Ryan, would you like to dance?” he asked and watched Ryan’s eyes widen before he cast a look around the establishment.

“What - here? In front of all these people?” he demanded, lowering his voice to a near whisper. Shane laughed.

“When I said this was a place where no one would bother us, I meant it,” he said and got to his feet. There weren’t many pansy clubs around anymore, but here the staff was impeccable and discreet, and all the guests knew the deal. The narrow facade hid an establishment that opened up in the back, lots of space without any windows He bowed down with a flourish and extended his hand towards Ryan.

“Will you do the honor of giving me this dance, Ryan Bergara?”

A number of indecipherable emotions flickered across Ryan’s features, but finally they landed on a smile, and Ryan reached out a hand to place it in Shane’s.

“Why, yes Shane Madej, I would love to.”

And so Shane got to pull Ryan up and into a waltz that started out joyful, perhaps a touch performative and dramatic in the way that Shane took the lead and spun Ryan out. Ryan laughed and went with it, and settled his hand not on Shane’s shoulder but on his arm, just above the crook of Shane’s elbow. Like he’d promised, no one here paid them any heed, and Shane could feel Ryan relax by increments in his arms.

The waltz changed into a slower tune, and Shane half-expected Ryan to bow and take his leave. Instead he wound his arm around Shane’s waist and pulled him closer, shifting his other hand so it was resting against his shoulder, close to the collar of his shirt, and he tilted his head to gaze up at Shane.

“This is nice,” he said, and his eyelashes fluttered when he looked down, like he was embarrassed. Shane couldn’t help but smile, and even though it was in his nature to respond dismissively, or at least jokingly, he settled for a subdued, earnest reply:

“I’m glad you think so.”

Ryan shifted against him with the sway of the music, his body a wonderful, warm presence, and his eyes were large and expressive when he returned Shane’s gaze.

He looked like he was about to say something, but instead Shane pre-empted him.

“So, who’s Jen?”

A flicker of surprise across Ryan’s face and then, “My roommate. We can’t afford our own place, so we share.”

Something turned in Shane’s stomach, just a quick, ugly roll of emotion that he was careful not to show on his face.

“A roommate,” he repeated, and as the song quieted to an end they drifted to a halt, arms still around each other.

“Yeah, a roommate,” Ryan said. “Why, who did you think she was?”

“I think I need another drink,” Shane said instead of answering, and he left the dancefloor just as the band took up another waltz. It took Ryan a while to follow him, and Shane was in on his second shot by the time he came up beside him by the bar.

“Help yourself,” Shane said and knocked back the shot. Ryan shrugged and accepted a glass from the bartender, but seemed content to just sit back and watch Shane work his way toward alcohol-induced abeyance of consciousness.

“I don’t get you,” Ryan said and knocked the heavy bottom of the glass into the wood of the counter with a dull thud before he brought the glass to his lips and threw his head back to down the contents. Shane’s gaze caught on the lines of Ryan’s throat, the ripple of him swallowing.

“Oh yeah? I’m sorry to say that doesn’t exactly make you special,” Shane said with a laugh, but his words made something flash in Ryan's eyes, which in turn made Shane's stomach twist. “I’m ins- inscrutable, you know.”

“It’s not that,” Ryan said and looked down into his empty glass before he pitched his voice lower, so low Shane could barely hear him over the din of the establishment. “It’s more like, you can’t seem to decide whether or not you want me.”

“Want you?” Shane said and turned his body so abruptly that he almost overbalanced and fell off his stool. Ryan’s hand settled on his arm, a warm anchor in the swirling sea of inebriation. “You’re... Ryan, of course I do.”

Ryan laughed at that, and despite himself, Shane was drawn to the warmth of it, longed to press Ryan closer and let it vibrate against his chest. But Ryan looked down and said, “Then why do you keep pushing me away?”

Shane blinked. On the best of days, how would he explain the roiling turmoil that was his mind and, by extension, his body? That Ryan was full of life, had a spark, in a way that Shane wasn’t, hadn’t, and if Shane pressed Ryan to his chest like he wanted to, he might smother that spark. And Shane was selfish enough not to want that on his conscience. On the best of days, he couldn’t articulate a fraction of that, and with the bartender placing a glass in front of him, just putting it to his lips instead of answering felt like the right choice. Shane never claimed to be well-balanced - with his proportions, how could he be?

“All right,” Ryan said, when Shane’s world had gone blurry and tilted to the side as he tugged on his arm. “Time to get you home, big guy.”

“I can take care of myself,” Shane argued, and felt Ryan’s gentle grip herd him outside and into a cab. 

“Sure you can,” Ryan said and patted his knee with a warm hand. “I’ll even let you pay for the ride, how’s that?”

Shane grumbled something in response, but he couldn’t quite remember what, and besides, he had only glimpses of how Ryan helped him inside his home and helped him off with his shoes, and then he found himself unceremoniously deposited on his bed, alone and still wearing his clothes but quite unable to do anything but fall asleep.


	6. The Fifth Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In French, the little death.

This morning Shane had to lie still for a good five minutes before the reason behind the unease unfolded before his mind’s eye.

Ryan. Dancing. Drinking. Making an absolute jealous idiot of himself.

Well, it couldn’t be helped. Shane tended to drive people away anyway, and so he swung his legs over the edge of his bed, determined not to linger on the matter further. The hangover ambushed him swiftly and mercilessly however, and as Shane was prone to wallowing, he allowed himself a good five minutes more to sulk and bemoan this fate before he actually got to his feet.

When he got over that first swell of nausea and throb of headache, the first order of business was shaving. The second was emptying his stomach contents into the porcelain lap of his toilet, but then again, he felt better afterwards. Shane washed his hands, his mouth, his face and his body, and then he went to work, determined to do his job, Bennett be damned. Taking a cab to last night’s scene of the crime to retrieve his car seemed a fitting punishment anyway.

This time, if Sara was surprised to see him, she hid it well. Bennett did eye him suspiciously, but Shane only nodded at him with his expression open and innocent, awaiting direction. Today they were supposed to film a restaurant scene, and while they had rented an actual restaurant to film in, the right mood didn’t quite want to settle in. It was perhaps because they’d had to hire extra security to keep the damn reporters off the site, because everyone was still out for Shane’s metaphorical blood.

“Try to look like you’re having a good time,” Bennet shouted from behind the camera. “Like you’re comfortable.”

Shane rearranged his limbs into what he hoped was a relaxed position and eyed Sara, who seemed the very picture of at ease. She gave him an encouraging smile and touched her carefully arranged black locks before putting her hand back in her lap.

He’d read the script over several times while they waited for the production to set up, and still Shane had a hard time recalling his lines, ad-libbing them more often than not - but Sara grinned several times, out of frame or behind her hand, so Shane figured he hadn’t lost his touch entirely. Bennett was apparently not feeling it though, before he yelled cut, and then told all of them to take a five minute break, hell, make it ten, while he stalked off to smoke a cigarette in peace.

“You!” he threw over his shoulder at Shane before he left. “Learn your damn lines, if you’re going to be here.”

Stung, and with a touch more force than necessary, Shane grabbed the manuscript from an assistant who looked a little harassed and started to flip through the pages.

"This is terrible writing,” he muttered, and Sara snorted.

“This isn’t high-brow cinema,” she said. “It’s only supposed to be funny.”

“But it isn’t even that!” Shane protested and thrust the papers in her face. “Lord, no wonder the movies are doing so bad these days, this isn’t even worth the celluloid- what?”

Sara was patiently pointing at something behind Shane’s back, insistently enough that he broke off to stare at her.

“I think there’s someone over there who wants your attention,” she explained, and Shane whirled around to catch sight of none other than Ryan Bergara, leaned on a door frame and looking right at him.

“Ryan,” Shane said, taken aback and barely registered that Sara disappeared into the makeshift dressing room set up in the restaurant foyer.

“Shane,” Ryan said, and Shane thought he saw the ghost of a smile on his lips. “Can I talk to you?”

It was like Shane had given up control of his own limbs - a theme, where Ryan was concerned - and before he could think about it, he’d already wandered over to him, putting a hand on the door frame to brace himself and to keep himself a proper distance away. It would be too easy to lean in.

“What are you doing here?” Shane asked. “How did you get past the reporters? And the security, for that matter!”

“You haven’t heard?” Ryan said and he sounded- gleeful. Giddy. Shane blinked.

“No. Heard what?”

“It was the wife who did it,” Ryan said and crossed his arms where he was still leaning on the door frame. “The wife- and Bella Dunway, they murdered him. There’s a warrant out for their arrest, but I hear they’ve fled the country.”

Shane blinked again. It seemed like it took forever for the words to register, but when the penny dropped he felt his knees turn to jelly.

“Whoa!” Ryan said and grabbed Shane by the arm. Shane supposed he’d wobbled, or else turned green, because Ryan gently pulled him along until he could push Shane down to sit on one of the chairs in the restaurant that had emptied for the break.

“You mean they- I- I’m not a suspect any longer?” Shane asked, and felt a flush of shame that this should be his first concern. A man was dead, by his wife’s hand, and all Shane could feel was relief.

“Yeah,” Ryan said, and his face split into a grin. “Or I mean no, you’re not a suspect any longer. We can put this entire affair behind us.”

“This affair,” Shane repeated dumbly. Ryan squeezed his shoulder. Bennett chose that moment to return, and he looked irritated.

“Madej!” he said without sparing Ryan so much as a second look. “Go get these damn reporters out from under my feet! Go home and see that they follow you, I don’t want to see you for the rest of the week.”

“It was the wife,” Shane said, and Bennett waved his hand dismissively.

“Yes, I heard. Now go tell the reporters what they want to hear and get out of here, we can’t get anything done like this. I’ll call you.”

Ryan squeezed Shane’s shoulder again, and in a daze Shane let himself be pulled up and herded off the set. Ryan, God bless and keep him, managed to smuggle him out the back, avoiding the herd of reporters, and he placed Shane in the passenger seat of his own car and took the wheel himself.

“Thank you,” Shane managed after a while, blinking against the sunlight falling in through the windscreen. “You really didn’t have to do any of this, Ryan.”

He felt Ryan glance at him but didn’t have the fortitude to look back. Eventually Ryan returned his gaze to the road.

“I won’t say it was no problem,” he said, a teasing lilt to the words. “But I wanted to do it- all of it. Although I am glad it’s over.”

“You are?” Shane asked and sat up a little straighter, gripping the fabric of his pants where his hands rested against his thighs. “I would have thought the thrill of the case was what kept you around.”

Ryan stepped on the brake so quickly and forcefully that Shane was thrown forward, hands coming up to brace against the headboard. They were in the middle of the road, but it was also the middle of the day and no traffic in sight. Some instinct in Shane that had never made itself known before told him to be quiet, wait for Ryan to form his thoughts.

“Is it so completely beyond your comprehension,” Ryan said slowly, “that I could just like you?” 

Shane licked his lips and looked at Ryan. He regretted his decision, because Ryan had his eyes trained on him, color high on his cheeks and his hair falling over his dark eyes.

“It’s,” Shane said and began anew: “It doesn’t happen very often.”

Ryan made a noise, halfway between a choked laugh and a growl, and reached across the gearbox to grab Shane by the collar of his shirt.

“Don’t make me fucking prove it to you,” Ryan said, and this was definitely a growl. Shane felt it rasp against his spine and pool in his stomach.

“I won’t,” he promised, and his gaze flicked down to Ryan’s lips of their own volition. “But if you drive us home, I’ll show you that I’ll try to believe you.”

He watched Ryan swallow, the gorgeous tremor of his throat that Shane wanted to kiss, and Ryan’s fingers unclenched, releasing Shane’s collar.

“Don’t distract me,” Ryan said and settled back into the driver’s seat, shoulders straightened. “I’ll drive faster.”

* * *

This time, Shane made sure all the doors to his home was locked, but by the time he’d made the circuit, Ryan had stripped himself of his suit jacket and shoes and was halfway up the stairs.

“I know the way,” he said with a grin thrown over his shoulder that was more mischievous than it was teasing. “Hurry up, old man!”

“I’m not old,” Shane protested and took the stairs two at a time so that when he caught up with Ryan in his bedroom, he was a little out of breath, and Ryan had already started to unbutton his shirt.

“Don’t expect me to do all the work,” Ryan said and nodded at Shane’s clothed state, and with a smile Shane raised his hands to his own buttons. They stilled at his collar however, as Shane watched Ryan peel off his shirt and reveal an expanse of skin that Shane felt giddy in witnessing.

“Well?” Ryan said and hooked his fingers in the lining of his own slacks. Shane’s fingers twitched against his shirt, and then he popped the first button open, anything to spur the progress of Ryan’s disrobing. But Ryan stilled too, his eyes drawn to the hollow of Shane’s throat, recently exposed.

“Race you,” Shane said, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Last one naked has to get the lights.”

It was a race Shane was all too happy to lose, with Ryan was laughing and naked on his bed when he walked over to the door to flick the lamp off, his shirt hanging off his wrists by the cuffs and with his slacks unbuttoned but still on. There was still some daylight spilling in through a crack in the drapes, but that window only led to Shane’s encased garden, and he was glad for how he the light made it so could pick out the details of Ryan’s body sprawled on his bed. The hue of his skin, shifting from the light of his palms to the dark of his forearms, the movement of muscle underneath painting a picture as he shifted.

“Get over here,” Ryan demanded, leaning back on his elbows and regarding Shane under heavy eyelids. But when Shane did, putting one knee on the bed to crawl over him, Ryan stretched out his leg and planted his naked foot firmly on Shane’s chest to keep him at arm’s -or rather, leg’s- length.

“Not before you get naked,” he said, and with the order Shane felt an embarrassing little note of arousal in among the orchestra of heat that made up his body. Without breaking eye contact, he undid his shirt cuffs, one by one, and let the white shirt fall in a fluttering heap behind him before he straightened up to set his foot on the bed and undo his sock garter.

Ryan’s foot slipped off his chest, but it stayed hovering in the air. Shane swallowed, looked at the coarse hair of Ryan’s leg, the powerful lines of his flexed calf muscle, and hurriedly undid the other garter so he could pull off his socks. He made to move closer, but Ryan mercilessly put his foot back, right on Shane’s breastbone.

Ryan grinned though, and Shane grinned too. It felt like a game, but one with no losers, and Shane happily pushed his slacks and underwear down to pool at his feet. Ryan’s foot was warm against his skin, and delicately, tenderly, Shane clasped it in both hands and bent down to kiss the ankle.

He heard Ryan give a shuddering exhale, and with a smile that he assumed had to be at least a little devious, Shane got down on all fours above Ryan and set out to map every inch of his skin he could reach - with his hands and mouth and eyes.

Ryan was responsive in a way Shane had never dreamt a partner to be - he shuddered and gasped, he told Shane _ yes, like that  _  and threaded his fingers through his hair when Shane swallowed him down. The smell, the feel, the taste of him was overwhelming and Shane wanted to submerge himself in Ryan and the noises he made, especially as he arched his body and came in Shane’s mouth. But quickly, too soon, Ryan’s fingers tightened in his hair, pulling at his scalp until tears pooled in the corners of his eyes and Shane had to come up for air.

“Let me,” Ryan gasped, and Shane didn’t know what he was letting Ryan do when he allowed himself to be pulled back up  and then pushed down on his back. Ryan heaved himself across him and locked their mouths together in a kiss so filthy Shane’s toes curled, Ryan’s tongue delving deep as if he was chasing the taste of himself. Shane got lost in it, the slide of lips and the hot rush of air between them, so that Ryan’s touching his cock was a shock that made his eyes fly open and a gasp disappear into Ryan’s mouth. His leg twitched involuntarily, bent at the knee and braced the foot against rumpled sheets.

“Okay?” Ryan managed to press out, his mouth sliding wetly against Shane’s jaw, and Shane made an embarrassingly high noise at the back of his throat and grabbed Ryan by the neck like his life depended on it. It was grounding, Ryan’s solid warmth beneath his palm, even as he was riding a cresting wave of pleasure.

Desperate to get a word in edgewise, Shane grabbed Ryan’s ass with his other hand and turned his head to mumble into his cheek, “From the moment I first laid eyes on you, I wanted you to like me. I liked you, so much-”

The words were incredibly insignificant, a banal phrasing that didn’t come close to conveying what Shane truly felt, but Ryan’s hot mouth moved from Shane’s neck to his shoulder and he bit down, hard. The flash of pain put fire to the kindling of Shane’s climax, and he came with a sob, pressing Ryan as close as he could.

Shane had no idea how long a time had passed before his limbs unlocked from the impasse of pleasure, allowing Ryan to shift his full weight off him. His mind was blissfully blank, and Shane would have let Ryan stay on top of him longer, even if his comfortable weight made it a bit troublesome to breathe.

“Well,” Ryan said and looked down between them, at the mess they’d made of themselves and the bed, sounding gratifyingly out of breath. “I hope we can do that again sometime.”

“If I wasn't _ so old,” _ Shane said, also a little breathlessly, and pulled Ryan back down on top of him, “I’d do this again right now.”

“Really?” Ryan said, allowing himself to settle into the nooks and planes of Shane’s body. He sounded almost shy. Shane palmed his ass again, heard him voice a protest, and smiled.

“In a heartbeat, Ryan.”


	7. The Rest Of Their Lives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue.

Ryan loved his job, but it was still always a relief to pull up on the driveway, see the welcoming gleam of the 1937 Lincoln-Zephyr already in the garage, hear the gravel crunch underfoot as he made his way to the front door.

Today though, some instinct made Ryan omit the front door and slip directly the back garden, in through a gap in the hedge that he’d discovered that not so fateful night when he and Shane had broken into the home of a murder suspect. His instinct proved true, because on the back porch, reading intently and perched on a wicker chair with a pen stuck in his mouth, a stack of papers in one hand and a drink in the other, was the house owner and apparent love of Ryan’s life, Shane Madej.

Seeing Shane sprawled out in his own garden - their garden, he had to keep reminding himself - with a drink made Ryan think back to the first time he’d laid eyes on him in person. Sulking over the counter with a ridiculous, blue cocktail between his fingers. Ryan hadn’t picked up on his sour mood initially, he’d just seen the recognizable frame of an actor he admired and gone up, eager to just get one, unforgettable moment from what was otherwise a pretty terrible party.

What had struck him then, as it still did sometimes, was that Shane looked at him and immediately saw him as a human first and everything else second. Sad to have set his standards so low, Ryan supposed, but it was rare for him to be met that way in Hollywood, and Shane _was_ charming, even with his oddities. Or because of them, really. It might have started out as simple, physical attraction between the odd ones out at a party, but it became so much more so fast, like striking a match and starting a forest fire.

Ryan moved closer, but it wasn’t until his toes struck the wood of the porch that Shane looked up. He wasn’t startled - he never was, Ryan had learned, just one of his idiosyncrasies - but he did blink and raise his reading glasses up on his forehead, after setting his drink down.

“Ryan,” he said and rubbed at one eye tiredly. “You’re home already?”

“It’s after eight,” Ryan said and heaved himself up on the porch, omitting the stairs, to step right into Shane’s waiting lap. He grabbed the papers from Shane’s hand and sat down on his thighs, ignoring his huff of protest.

“You got the notes for the script?” he asked, perhaps dumbly, as he looked at the red markings scrawled carelessly across the neat black rows of text that Shane had spent night after night diligently typing away at.

“Yeah,” Shane said and pulled a hand through his hair before he buried his face in Ryan’s shoulder. Ryan slung an arm around his neck and pressed Shane’s face closer to his chest without looking away from the notes. “They wanted to throw out most of your suggestions, even though they made it so much better. It’s that damn Hayes code. You can’t write anything that’s even remotely risqué these days.”

“Yeah, _‘back in my day, we could write about all the sex we wanted,’_ we know, grandpa,” Ryan said, but he also pressed a kiss to the crown of Shane’s head. That didn’t stop Shane from sputtering and digging his knuckles into Ryan’s side - the bastard knew Ryan was ticklish.

“We _could,”_ Shane said. “That’s my point Ryan, we ought to still be able to write about all the sex we want. It doesn’t do to censor art like this.”

“I know,” Ryan said, but he’d been at work all day and he was too tired to pick a fight with all of Hollywood. He pressed another kiss to Shane’s hair and dropped the bundle of papers, which landed on the porch with a soft thud. Shane twitched, but didn’t move to pick it up, which spoke to how exhausted he was, too.

“Hey,” Ryan said and palmed Shane’s cheek, guided his head back so he could look him in the eye. It was rare for Ryan to be able to look down on him like this, and he relished in watching the fan of his eyelashes, sweeping his thumb along the arc of a well-defined eyebrow. Shane mustered up a smile, and Ryan’s heart ached a little. “You do know we don’t have to write about sex to have it, don’t you?”

Shane was never startled, but sometimes Ryan could surprise him. Like now, when his words made Shane burst out into unexpected laughter that almost unseated Ryan from his lap.

“I do know,” Shane finally managed to get out, and his hand had snaked its way up between them so he could hook a finger in Ryan’s shirt collar. “That’s the reason I never get any damn writing done, either.

Ryan was laughing when they met in a kiss, a sweet touch of lips in the cooling evening, that made him feel right at home.

* * *

**THE END**

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Writing this fic was a struggle, but you made it very worth it in the end.


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